


Touched by Fire

by NorroenDyrd



Series: My Precious Heathen [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Burns, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Fire, Haven (Dragon Age), Helpful Cole, Journey to Skyhold, POV Cole, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the way to Skyhold, Cole delves into the future Inquisitor's thoughts on the decimation of Haven, the way Dalish treat their mages, and Nevarran cheekbones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touched by Fire

_It is all quiet now. Peaceful. Snow creaking under the cart wheels, in a soft, soothing melody, reminding you of the drowsy sighs of the aravels back when you were little. Slow, steady movement, one foot after the other, eyes set on the goal beyond the far mountain ridge, in the milky mist._  
  
_You are tired, but not like you were when you crawled through the stifling, black, icy nothingness, your body hurting and crushed, your mind feverish, your hands groping at the scattered debris you found in your path - the only solid things in this billowing darkness... Embers - recent; they passed through here not so long ago; maybe I can still catch up with them; Creators, give me strength..._  
  
_No, now you are not tired the way you were back then; your head is clear, and your mind is not slipping away. It is just all this walking on and on that is making your legs ache - but it is a good sort of ache. It promises an evening by the fireside; another song, happy loudness; a spoon in your hand, warming your fingers as the stew's warmth races up its handle._  
  
_All is peaceful. All is well. The Elder One was angry, and he hurt a lot of people; he hurt you. But he is gone for now; he is a shadow at the back of your mind, a spot in the corner of your eye, which vanishes when you turn your head and try to stare straight at it. You are leading everyone towards a safe place; a new home. You should feel happy, relieved - or calm, at least._  
  
_But you aren't. There is a tiny black spider skittering across the surface of your heart. Prodding the soft, pulsing flesh with its legs; tugging at the veins like at the strings of its web. Pulling, playing, repeating a tune you want to forget. The strings are tight, tense, and they ring out, echoing through your chest, making you wince and frown. Not letting you rest._  
  
_The bandages - they still trouble you. Underneath the soft, gentle, kind cloth, the flesh has stopped hurting. No stinging, no itching; the magic and potions have done good work. But your skin is gnarled and coarse now, about to harden into pale scars - and it remembers. It still remembers what you did, and it always will._  
  
_Black wings cutting through the night, fire raining from the sky... Haven is like a page in a picture book, and the Elder One has torn it out and keeps crumpling it, with long, hard, clawed red fingers; the claws rip through the familiar lines, and make them twisted and frightening; happy little houses turn into smoldering ruins, screaming with pain._  
  
_Everything is screaming: the burning wood, the crumbling walls, the snow that is ploughed by fleeing feet - faster, faster, to the Chantry; everyone, to the Chantry... The flesh of the advancing Templars screams, too, as it bleeds raw lyrium; and the flesh of the refugees joins it in a shattering chorus, torn apart by fire, cut off the bones with cruel, sharp swords. But the souls of those who flee scream loudest of all, because horror is eating through them. Horror and desperation and disbelief. This was supposed to be over; we were supposed to celebrate; the Herald has closed the Breach... Why doesn't this end? Why do we keep dying?_  
  
_You hear some of the screaming, and you try to help. You rip through charred planks of wood; stumbling blindly, drunk with heady smoke, you find your way to frightened souls, curled up in tiny dark corners, cut off from the world by a wall of flame. You cast hissing blue runes to whip the fire to the ground; you reach out to grasp shaking, helpless fingers; you allow staggering, spluttering , sooty-faced humans to lean on your shoulder... And you wonder at yourself._  
  
_You used to think that you hated their kind; and there is still a wave of bitterness in your heart that rises and scorches you on the inside whenever one of them mistreats an elf... But you can't allow them to die. And it puzzles you - but while your mind wanders, your hands still do their work. You still keep helping the hurt, and the screaming goes a little quieter._  
  
_Suddenly, at your side, a big heart thuds warningly in a big, strong chest._  
  
_'Hey boss - I hear another one'._  
  
_You freeze, listening to crashing waves of the fiery storm. The voice is faint, a tiny droplet lost in a raging sea - but when you make it out, you grow pale._  
  
_This one is special._  
  
_A tiny figure, keeping to the shadows; a quiet mind, finding comfort in the flame of a candle and the smell of parchment; a timid heart, reaching out to those who I can't help, because there's a locked door between me and them, sealed with the mark on their foreheads._  
  
_You kept bringing her things to look at, puzzles to piece together - but you barely said two words to her, after the first talk you had... Even now, when we make camp, and she passes you by, you cloak yourself in a swirl of darkness that twists round your heart and squeezes blood out of it till you can't breathe._  
  
_Guilt._  
  
_She is guilt. She is fear. She is doubt. She is your wounded pride, your shattered world._  
  
_You used to think you were special; you used to think you were better than the rest of the Dalish children. A boy gifted in magic, the First of the Keeper; a young elf who was to grow up wise and powerful and lead the clan to glory. The colours around you used to be clear and sunny, your own self shining the brightest of all. But this girl stole the colours; they have faded to shifting, darkening greys, tainted by frightening questions and frightening answers. I can still hear them, pounding at the back of your skull. The same circle, over and over._  
  
_You ask yourself... What if you were not the only mage child born to your clan? And what if none of your wandering kin needed a First? And you say that then, there would have been nothing special about you; you would have been left in the fanged, hungering jaws of a winter forest, just like the girl had been. You have been made First not because of your special talents; you have been made First by chance. And who can tell if you deserved that chance more than she did? Who can tell what she would have become if you switched places?_  
  
_It is not fair that she was not given the life you had, just because she was born at the wrong time, in the wrong clan. It is not fair, you tell yourself, and it hurts you so much._  
  
_It hurt you in Haven, too - I can see. I can hear. The scars remember; and the scars keep talking._  
  
_They talk about you, racing up to the girl, everything else forgotten. About the wicked potions, hissing angrily in their large pots; and fire, snaking up closer and closer, pressing at the brittle clay with its red fingers. If the pots crack open, the girl will be showered in jets of liquid flame... Body losing shape, skin melting into a sticky black puddle, white bones scattering in the snow like shells of a broken bird egg... Must hurry. Must get to her in time. Let Bull take care of the apothecary. The Dalish left her to die once; it shall not happen again._  
  
_Arms closing into an embrace, knees scraping against the hardened rime, you try to pull her away from the pots - but her legs are trapped under a pile of debris. Sweep it off, yes, toss it away - you must toss it away. But there is no time. The fire is drawing near. Crackling, cackling. Jeering. It will claim her, and you too._  
  
_Heart pounding in your throat; stomach contracting till it is little more than a tiny pinpoint of pain; too late, too late... No it isn't._  
  
_Gathering all your strength, you press your hands against the girl's chest and cast a barrier spell. Soft, comforting blue glow spreads from your fingers. Washing over her like a wave - a warm wave kissing a sea shore under a clear blue sky. She is lying on her back in the shallows, her hair billowing in the sea water, her skin tickled by playful foam bubbles..._  
  
_But you - you are still in Haven, where it is dark and cold and hot and loud all at the same time. You are open to the stream of boiling poison that is about to rain down upon you. You are using all your strength to cast that barrier; there is not a droplet of it left for you to protect yourself.  It does not matter, though. As long as the girl is safe._  
  
_A touch of fire against the clay. A jagged black crack races upwards, like a reversed lightning bolt. Growing broader and broader, spreading, black, greedy... The pot bursts._  
  
_Pain. Blinding, crashing, mangling. A white-hot needle sinks into your every pore, deeper and deeper, reaching for your veins; and suddenly, the world grows white-hot, too. The blinding, searing colour floods everything around you and shrieks inside your skull - or maybe it is your own voice, bouncing off your bleeding lips into nothingness? You can't tell._  
  
_You can't tell what is going on around you - not until a small patch of whiteness grows darker. A blurred grey clot, floating towards you, sweeping you up, carrying you to safety. It has a voice, too; a voice that breaks through all the shrieking - muffled, distorted, like you are going underwater._  
  
_'I got him! Solas, can you treat his burns?'_  
  
_'I will certainly try, Seeker, but...'_  
  
_'No buts! Need I remind you that you are supposed to make yourself useful?'_  
  
_'Whoah, whoah! Can we cut it with the yelling? There's crap flying around all over the place, so we'd better all stick together!'_  
  
_'And you'd better use those big ox arms of yours and get the survivors to their feet - now!'_  
  
_Tone raised, arguing, ordering; a crack shooting through the voice - it seems like a thin hair, resting on the clear, smooth surface of a mirror... but if you press at it, it will deepen, and sparkling shards will scatter, slashing at the eyes with their wounding brightness, making them bleed heavy, burning tears. She cares; it hurts her to see you hurt._  
  
_The thought makes you smile. It makes you come back from where you've been trapped; squeeze through, little by little. A breath, a cough, a blink - and all of you is there; all of you is free. Gods, I have burns on half my body; there will be ugly scars left... Yes, I think I can stand... Thank you, lethallin... Did we do it? Did we save them?_  
  
_You saved them; soft, limp, obedient, they are now tucked away under the strong arms of the Iron Bull. The girl slips out, though, when she sees you are awake. A small, timid 'Thank you' flutters through the air; a butterfly with wings of pure moonlight, gentle and cool and soothing in all the roaring heat. Floating towards you, its reflection dancing in your widened eyes - and then, landing on your cheek. She has given you a kiss..._  


Arryn Lavellan furrowed his eyebrows, his steady glare fixed on the pale, lanky youth who was ambling at his side, scooping up snow with his torn, battered shoes. This... human-like creature, for want of a better word, kept vanishing behind a veil-like white flurry and then reappearing again, struggling to keep up to the elf's broad strides - and talking, talking, talking all the time.  
  
'Will there be no end to your rambling?' Arryn groused, fingering nervously at the fraying threads along the edge of the bandages that were wrapped around his right hand. 'So you can read my thoughts, I get it - but what is the point in voicing them out loud? Do you just want to brag, or embarrass me, or...'  
  
The pale lad quickened his pace, outrunning the elf and forcing him to slow down by blocking his path.  
  
'I want to help,' he said earnestly, looking up into Arryn's face through tangled strands of faded-blonde hair. 'Sometimes, to really understand your thoughts, you need someone else to tell them to you. You need to know that it is okay'.  
  
'What is?' Arryn asked sharply.  
  
He had never come across any being quite like this strange boy, but the more time he spent in his company, the more he was inclined to agree with Solas' first guess that their unexpected party crusher was a spirit. At least, the habit to talk in riddles was definitely there.  
  
'All these feelings that are waking up inside you,' the lad explained, his tone enthusiastic and patient at the same time, as though he was a scholar, and Arryn was an amateur that he wanted to share some exciting discovery with - an amateur that had to be walked through all of this step by step, like a child.  
  
_'Being sorry for humans. Being upset because of what happened to that girl. Your heart has never been touched this way before, and this confuses you. This is the spider that does not leave you alone. But it's okay. Your world has been silent for so long; you kept to yourself when you lived with your clan - and now you are sinking into a sea of people, each one talking, laughing, crying, asking, answering... It is so hard not to drown. But you can do it - you can learn to swim. You are solid, not like me; you will not melt away in the waves. All you have to do is stop being confused, or scared - because it is okay. That other feeling is okay, too...'_  
  
'Other... feeling?' Arryn echoed questioningly, as, without him realizing it, his bandaged hand began to claw at the folds of the scarf wrapped around his neck (Josephine insisted that everyone wear scarves to keep themselves warm during their trek through the mountains; Varric's theory was that she knit them herself, when she was not buttering up nobles or writing elaborately polite letters with five-page greetings).  
  
The boy closed his eyes, taking a long, deep breath of air, and began to speak in the same rhythmic, song-like way as when he described the horrors of Haven,  
  
_'Fiery eyes, hard and honest like a blade; nothing like the eyes of other shems - nothing like poisoned daggers hidden in a silken sleeve... Swift, strong, unwavering. A force of nature. Kissing her would be like drowning in a mountain stream, letting the current carry you off... Faster, faster; choking, laughing; spinning out of control... No. Wrong. This is so wrong. I am First of the Keeper, the hope and future of my clan. My purpose has always been to master magic and ancient lore - and now I have to banish an evil that has twisted the wisdom of my people. I can't be lead astray from this path - by a shem, no less. But... But her lips, her scars, her cheekbones...'_  
  
He opened his eyes, his eyebrows arching in childish surprise, and added, his voice now a little closer to sounding... human,  
  
'You seem to think a great deal about her cheekbones. I... I am not sure why - but she thinks about your cheekbones too. Also your nose. And your body in general...'  
  
'That's enough!' Arryn hissed through his teeth, groping instinctively for the staff behind his back.  
  
As his bandaged fingers clasped round the smooth polished wood, he whipped his weapon through the air and pressed the ornate tip underneath the boy's chin.  
  
'Enough rifling through my head! You want dirty laundry, talk to Sera - she has a vast network of breeches-nabbing contracts'.  
  
The pale lad slid one step backwards, shaking his head.  
  
_'Bristling, snapping, biting,'_ he chanted, _'Afraid of the unknown. Afraid of losing his way in a human's eyes...'_  
  
Vibrating slightly in Arryn's grasp, the staff flared threateningly.  
  
'I said - _enough!'_  
  
'Okay, boss, don't get riled up. I thought you were Varric; you have the same ponytails, and from up here, all you puny folks look the same'.  
  
Seconds before Arryn spat out his second warning, a soft, wet snowball had plopped against the back of his neck, and when he spun around on his feet, he found himself standing in the shadow of the genially grinning Iron Bull. Behind his back, a few of the Chargers could be seen skipping about, aiming thawing lumps of snow at one another's faces.  
  
'I thought you were professionals,' Arryn said stiffly. 'You are acting like a bunch of children'.  
  
The giant Qunari regarded the elf with mild amusement.  
  
'Come on, boss... We have been staring at these bleeding mountains for days now! Might as well loosen up a little... And since humpin' is kinda inconvenient when we are all on the move, might as well toss around some snowballs - instead of a different kind...'  
  
Arryn cringed.  
  
'You have... a diverse range of entertainment, Iron Bull,' he muttered, brushing the snow deliberately off his collar. 'You can count me out, though. When you so rudely barged in, I was in the middle of...' he paused in mid-sentence, frowning. 'Wait, what was I in the middle of? I - I cannot remember...'  
  
The Qunari gave him a teasing prod in the shoulder - almost making him lose balance and slump down into a snowdrift.  
  
'Just relax, boss. You've been through a whole lot of crap, and stumbling about talking to yourself ain't the best way to get over it. Hey Krem,' Bull glanced sideways with his sighted eye, seeking out the young Tevinter, 'Run back and find that dwarf, will you? He promised me some "traditional winter entertainment". Sled-ding, I think he called it'.  
  
As it turned out, Varric was almost on the opposite end of the long, thread-like caravan that stretched in an unbreakable line along the mountain ridge. Walking on tiptoe (as best he could, with that nasty mix of slippery stones and icy crust under his feet) and smiling smugly to himself, he was moving forward with a large shield closely clutched to his chest, while the shield's owner was being distracted by a small, willowy elf in a dark-turquoise robe.  
  
'Uhm, Lady Seeker...' Researcher Minaeve began tentatively, coughing into her fist.  
  
'Yes?' Cassandra asked absently.  
  
It was most frustrating; she seemed to have misplaced her shield during the last time the stopped to rest. And she could swear she had overheard Varric trying to prove to Blackwall that the real purpose of any shield was being used as a sled. 'I am telling you, Mister Beard, whenever winter came to Kirkwall, me and my Buddy-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-If-Cassandra-Is-Within-Earshot would nick the guard captain's shield, grab a couple of crazy elves, and go to the Wounded Coast to do some sliding... Ah, good times'.  
  
Maker, if that dwarf really had stolen her shield... If he put as much as a scratch on it...  
  
'Lady Seeker... I wanted to talk to you... About Haven... When the Herald saved me... I, uhm, kissed him... I - I didn't mean anything by it, I swear! It was just a token of gratitude!'  
  
The words 'Herald' and 'kiss' seemed to bring Cassandra's mind back on track. Drawing herself up to her full height, she glared down at Minaeve, her eyes darkened by the shadow of her knitted eyebrows.  
  
'Excuse me, Researcher? What makes you think _I_ would care about who kisses the Herald and why?'  
  
The little elf averted her eyes, laughing nervously.  
  
'Oh, well... I don't mean to intrude - but it's just... After so much time among the Tranquil, any display of emotion, even the slightest, kind of stands out for me... I couldn't help but notice...'  
  
'You noticed nothing, Researcher. There is nothing _to_ notice. This conversation is over,' Cassandra cut her short, with a loud disgusted noise.


End file.
